


"some good in a very dark world"

by Windward_wings



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode 26 AU, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, and had the desperate urge for Solving Stuff, and watched an AMV, at best, because I was having a terrible day, this is 75 percent catharsis and 25 percent probability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:32:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23952352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windward_wings/pseuds/Windward_wings
Summary: Three adventurers and one new ally wake up on a cold morning by the Glory Run Road, ready to fight slavers to rescue their kidnapped friends. Probably by this time they should know that their plans tend to go wrong pretty quick.
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett & Caleb Widogast, Nott & Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Caleb Widogast, The Mighty Nein & Mollymauk Tealeaf
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	"some good in a very dark world"

There was snow dusting the endless hills, and a cloud wall approaching from the north, dark as lead and weeping. Caleb blinked his eyes open, lids still heavy with sleep, as the distant cry of birds and the scuff of footsteps on grass finally made asserted itself and woke him from uneasy sleep. The others were stirring; it was time to be properly awake, no doubt… Old scars ached down to bone as he rolled over and sat upright, the sick aftertaste of nightmare shading his thoughts.

They were still here. Such as they were, they were here: Keg grumbling, armor half buckled on, sitting crosslegged on the frosty ground – Beau sluggishly practicing punches over by the leaning tree, a scowl on her face that could have boiled water at a hundred feet – Nott bleary-eyed with the mask down around her throat, sucking on a knobby green knuckle of her hand and staring at her flask as if it held the answers to something. Molly – well, Molly was still asleep on the grass a few feet away, sprawled out now where he had been curled like a kitten in their midst all night, hair a mussed tangle around his horns. Some folk could sleep through anything, apparently.

…Those who could sleep well these days, should.

And then the bells of the silver thread spell rang the alarm, where he’d placed them across the roadway to give warning. A sharp shrill cry, startling the sleep out of Caleb’s mind and replacing the weariness in his cold bones with abrupt awareness.

 _Here they are_.

Here it is – he told himself, all in a flash – you could have run, Widogast, you could have gone, you were sitting in the dark for hours like a blinking idiot that night; you could have taken a horse and run anytime, you fool. Now you are going to fight, you are going to fight and bleed for these strangers once again –

Strangers. Were they strangers? Again that voice in what used to be his heart, a small voice long silenced: _not strangers_. _Something else –_

“Up,” he said, hoarsely. “Up!”

And that was the beginning of something, or maybe it was the end instead.

*

The ice of the enemy spell billowing out from the main wagon cut off Beau’s breath for a split second, a frigid grasp clutching at her lungs as she gasped for air, her fingers clenching numbly on her staff. But the fight wasn’t over, the Iron Shepherds’ druid still standing in front of her, so nothing mattered – neither cold nor pain – and though there was no breath in her she threw herself forward, sudden tears burning hot in her eyes, and she distantly felt the staff connect hard with bone through skin.

She might have shouted if she could have. As it was she only struck once more, reversing to jab with the butt of her staff into the druid’s stomach, then spinning loose as the slaver fell. And at last she could breathe again as she looked up into the chaos just beyond her, and with that breath yelled the first clear thought that came to mind: “Who’s going to handle Lorenzo?”

Nobody answered, not that she was expecting an answer; she swore, her balance teetering on feet numb with cold and ice magic alike. _Of course it’s me_ – she thought, and calculated her jump, leaving the dying druid behind on the ground.

The horse’s back that she clambered up was slippery under her grasp, metal from the harness jabbing the bony front of her knee, a pain she had to ignore as she scrambled upright. There ahead of her and within her reach the bald man in dark leathers stood, hand upraised as if about to cast again, the wide gash of his grin showing a mouthful of teeth.

She saw the glaive like a dull hooked fang above her, against the silvery sky, and pushed back the sickening terror so that it flowed into her veins as strength instead, as alertness.

 _You won’t get any more of us_ – she wanted to spit at Lorenzo, words full of the bitterness of the tears she’d been holding back for a day and more, thinking of Jester’s soft artist’s hands bound in chains, Yasha unconscious behind bars, Fjord slumped bloody and silent. How _dare_ he. How dare any of them touch her friends – her _family_ –

Then a whirl of color, a clumsy rush of motion, and Molly was there, throwing himself over the edge of the cart, staggering as he hit the ground, two darkly-fletched arrows standing out of his shoulder and blood streaming down his face. Sword in each hand, glowing with light and power, like something out of the storybooks, mirroring the terrible vengeance in his bright eyes. The heavy edge of his coat swished across her knees as he sprang in front of her, the first real sensation she had felt since the cold touched her.

And then, as quickly as he had appeared to save her, Molly stumbled and swayed, a split second before he fell at Lorenzo’s feet.

*

Caleb had seen Nott find her place among the cages on the cart; he had thrown his shield out wildly in time to deflect the arrow that hurtled towards him, then dropped to the snow-dusted grass with his heart hammering in panic. He heard the shouts, the whinnying of startled horses and the ring of metal.

Then Beau’s yell, sharp with desperation: “Who’s going to handle Lorenzo?”

There at least was something he could manage from here, without getting any closer to the dreadful melee of wagons and weapons below. He scrambled upright, his glove at the ready, breath coming quickly. In the muddle of the fight, his eyes caught sight of blue cloth and a whirling staff – Beau – his failsafe, his _friend_ – alone running towards that man –

And the small and broken part of him, or maybe the only part that was still whole, whispered to him: _nobody should stand alone._

Before he knew quite what he was doing, he was running too: running downhill, skidding on sodden grass and slick stone, towards danger, towards death, towards a possible end he had never dreamed for himself but which his mind acknowledged coldly he might yet meet – _could you pay for lives with lives? How many lives did you need to save to wash the stains of such deaths –_

He had meant to stop before he reached the fighting, in any case. He was supposed to stay at least twenty feet back, after all; he was useless in a close fight, better to stay clear and throw brilliant death at a distance like always. And anyway, clear as a butterfly’s wings against the faded landscape, he saw that he wasn’t Beau’s only aid. Molly was there –

Yes. Molly _was_ there.

Molly was on his knees, a crumple of peacock color, the Shepherds’ arrows sunk into his shoulder – blood splashing the pale grass beneath him, Lorenzo’s shadow above him as the glaive rose.

Quick as thought, Caleb’s right hand sent three shooting stars into motion.

In their burning light, like dawn in the dimness, he was still running as the missiles flew. Their gleam filled and dazzled his eyes, but he was no stranger to firelight, no stranger to _too late_ ; this time he would not be too late.

And so he couldn’t stop now, any more than he could have run away that night on watch.

Unsteady footing, slippery grass, upraised glaive dully glinting; Molly’s face gray as he lay motionless on the ground; Beau screaming, perhaps it was Beau screaming? Black leather, and the crackle of magic as it found its target, and a smile like the end of the world–

He saw the blade of the glaive before he felt it: sliding with strange ease into his own chest, like a knife into its destined sheath, then drawing back out with a bright rush of blood following.

The pain reached him before the second blow fell, and with its white-hot touch the world spun away into darkness.

*

They owed their survival to Keg, really. Keg, whose voice had startled Lorenzo where he stood over the two crumpled bodies in front of him, setting him turning towards her – Keg, whose momentary sacrifice gambit had given the crucial distraction moment for Nott to come hurtling out of the cart, crossbow at the ready, two acid-trailing crossbow bolts slamming into the back of Lorenzo’s neck in quick succession. One of the Iron Shepherds cried out as their leader fell, but Nott’s louder scream cut the air like a knife as she hit the ground running.

And then Keg was running too, the light from Caleb’s missiles turning her dingy armor into the gleaming garb of a battle angel, rushing not _away_ this time but _towards_ her old comrades with weapons upraised. 

But all of this was distant and unreal to Beau, like a puppet show against a backdrop, actions that had little to do with her. She dropped to kneel in the grass, winded as if she had been struck, her callused hands fluttering uncertain and unprepared.

Molly hadn’t moved since he’d fallen, but his body was warm to her touch, the flicker of a pulse at his throat and the shudder of breath barely to be seen. But Caleb – Caleb – oh, there was so much _blood_. Blood welling from the gaping wounds in his chest, streaming from the corners of his mouth as his body twitched around shuddering breaths, eyes open wide and foggy into nothing. She scrabbled in her pouch for the potion bottle she knew was there, her numb fingers closing on it after what seemed like forever.

“Don’t – you – _dare_ – die on me.”

His head was lifeless weight in the crook of her arm as she tilted the bottle against his lips. He coughed weakly, blood and potion alike spattering against her hand, and if he swallowed any there was no sign of change.

Hoofbeats, screams, horses breathing hard, feet running. Nott screeching at an inhuman pitch somewhere in the little valley, shrieking vengeance and rage.

Caleb would have a potion somewhere too. Beau tugged at his ragged coat with one hand, feeling the pockets, moving upwards and swearing as she went, till blood-slippery glass met her fingertips. The cork was crumbled and the bottle crazed with scratches, but the potion still sloshed inside.

She wanted to scream for Jester. But Jester wasn’t here. Jester was – she looked up – was still in those wagons that even now were clattering along the road past their little ambush site, fading into the cloudy distance. The Iron Shepherds were cutting their losses, taking their foul business north to who-knows-where…

The burn of tears was in Beau’s throat as she swallowed hard. Whatever they had accomplished today, it wasn’t enough. Not enough to save Jester and Yasha and Fjord from their captors.

But maybe enough to lose a few more of her Mighty Nein.

The hand she had pressed to Caleb’s chest was a futile measure against the spreading blood, but she didn’t dare let go to use both hands to open the potion bottle. So she was still struggling with the cork, three broken fingernails later, when Nott slammed into her at a run. _“Caleb –_ Caleb – Caleb – “

“He’s still alive. I can’t – “

Unfortunately, Nott broke the healing potion bottle as she snatched it from Beau’s hands; fortunately, the neck broke more cleanly than it could have, and the majority of the potion was still contained within the remainder.

Nott’s eyes were wide as saucers in her small face as she bent over Caleb. This time it seemed that some of the potion did get into him; anyway, he didn’t cough as he swallowed. For a terrifying moment nothing changed; then the fluttering rhythm of his heartbeat strengthened under Beau’s hands, blood pulsing bright crimson between her fingers. His eyelids slid shut, his face still deadly pale.

“Hey, ain’t anyone going to see what the tiefling – “ Keg’s voice behind her stopped short, then, “Oh.”

“We’re a little busy right now,” snapped Nott.

“Oh. Yes. Yes, guess you are.” Keg shifted position nervously, betrayed by a clank of her armor. “I told you these were awful people.”

“Yeah, you warned us, you warned us.”

“Don’t think we’ve seen the last of them either. You did a good job getting a few shots in, though, you creepy little whatsit.” Keg knelt down by their little cluster on the ground, edging into the corner of Beau’s vision. “Didn’t that firbolg lady last night give us – “

It took Beau a moment to remember what Keg meant. Then, “Yes. The moss, the healing stuff. We’ll – we should – “ There seemed no point to finishing the sentence. “Some for each of them. Who – who had it anyway?”

“Give it to Caleb,” Nott was saying. “He’s hurt worse. Molly’s going to be fine.”

“Molly needs it too.” Beau heard her voice shaking, but she went on anyway. “And anyway – he _said_ nobody was going to get left behind, he said that we didn’t do that; we can’t – can’t leave _him_ like that.”

“Do we – uh – want to keep sitting in the road like this?” said Keg.

It was on the tip of Beau’s tongue to spit back _well why not_ but it was true, their packs were back at the campsite. So she slid her other arm under Caleb’s knees and got slowly to her feet, balancing his weight against her, his head resting limp on her shoulder.

“You guys get Molly,” she said. “We’ll – we’ll go – somewhere.”

Northward, the gathering storm loomed like the smoke of a great fire, and the wind had a bite in it that it had previously lacked. The light was failing as if into sunset, though it wasn’t long past dawn.

Her hands and jacket were sticky and sodden with Caleb’s blood, his body a dead weight in her arms, his breaths a whisper against the skin of her throat.

_Do. Not. Die._

They couldn’t lose another. Not one. Surely not two. But here they were, such as they were. 

*

They made a strange little cluster there, in the hill-hollow where their campsite lay. Keg had helped lay Molly down and then vanished with a mutter of explanation nobody heard, the sound of her armor swiftly fading. So it was just the four of them, two conscious and two fearfully silent: Beau sitting cross-legged by Molly, grimacing at the long arrows buried in his shoulder, blood darkening the embroidery of his coat and blooming across the front of his shirt; Nott hunched over Caleb, his head on her lap, her tongue-tip stuck out between her fangs in nervous concentration as she crumbled pinches of the moss for him. “No, no, c’mon, swallow it, it’ll _help_ you.”

The shock of the whole brisk disaster was telling on Beau now, the echoes of Lorenzo’s frost magic running through her system in small trickles of chill. Or perhaps that was only her own nerves that set her trembling, set her hands shaking as she steadied one against Molly’s body and wrapped the other around the shaft of the first arrow.

It wasn’t the first time she had pulled arrows out of a friend of hers. But usually there was more – _reaction_ , at least, and the sick feeling of fear in her chest intensified as Molly didn’t even stir at the pain. The bandages over the wounds were blood-soaked before she even finished tying the knots off; she reached for the other half of the moss, set close by to defend it against any unreasonably biased actions by Nott, and shivered for the wind and the chill alike.

Enough had happened that she should have been used to it by now – how terribly wrong things could go, so terribly quickly. Still sometimes it surprised her, thinking of the light-brilliant night in Hupperdook, the laughter and the fireworks and the taste of wine bittersweet on her lips, and now a few scant days later to sit here with Molly lying limp on the withered grass by her, and Nott sobbing over Caleb next to them.

And if not for Molly… and Caleb… Beau winced, pushing back the memory of those dizzied moments, of running towards enemies with no back-up and then watching her back-up appear and collapse in front of her. Idiot. What had he even done, running into a fight like that when he was in such bad shape already…

“Idiot,” she said to Molly. He didn’t answer, but she hoped he’d heard. “You’re lucky. If Caleb hadn’t – “

 _It could have been worse_. Oh, it could have been. It almost had been and maybe it still would be, who knew… She rubbed the moss together in one fist and let the dust of it trickle between Molly’s parted lips, the faint sweet smell of whatever strange stuff it was making her nose wrinkle.

“Idiot,” she said again for good measure. She huddled forward over her drawn-up knees, shivering, not certain if the haze in her eyes were tears or mist from the gray sky. Reaching out, she tugged the folds of the coat back across Molly’s chest, hiding the worst of the bloodstains in its more forgiving whirl of colors. What had he said that night on watch – pretending to be royalty in a small town for a dare – she’d believe it of him – anybody wearing a coat like that obviously had the nerve for anything –

And Yasha had been there, too, no doubt, smiling patiently with that little wistful crook in her mouth that she had, watching her friend make lights and color out of darkness and stillness. But thinking of Yasha made Beau swallow hard, clench her teeth and choose to keep to the present moment: yes, _now_ , and the small rise and fall of Molly’s breathing, the dark wave-patterns of drying blood on his skin, the tangled locks of hair at the base of his horns, the glint of winter light on silver jewelry; think _now_ , not what was, not what could be…

And then _now_ was very easy to think of suddenly, as Molly’s eyelids fluttered, a shine beneath the lashes. One corner of his mouth twitched up.

“S’ the Cobalt Soul… hiring?” His voice was a breathy whisper. “ ‘m getting tired of… current line of work.”

The sudden burn of tears in her throat nearly choked Beau. “You idiot,” she said thickly, “you absolute moron, you – “

Molly blinked again, then tried to struggle against Beau’s hand that held him down. His voice quickened, strengthened. “ – Yasha?”

“No. We didn’t – we didn’t get her – didn’t get – them.”

She felt him freeze beneath her grasp. “Didn’t – “

“We didn’t. We tried. We _tried_ , blast it.” Beau clenched her free hand into a fist, nails biting her palm. “There were too many. Lorenzo – the others – there were casters there, we didn’t _know_.”

She had never seen anything quite like the desolation that crossed Molly’s face then.

“Those wretches – still have them?”

“Yes. Yes, they do. Stop asking, stop _looking_ like that.” Her voice was wobbly, rocking on the edge of tears, and she didn’t even care, not now. “You nearly _died_. What kind of dumb trick was that? Caleb – Caleb saved us both there, and he’s – he’s – “

“He’s – what?”

Her eyes flicked where Caleb lay, silent and motionless, his coat spread over him like a blanket and the russet tousle of his hair half-covering his closed eyes. What she could see of his face was corpse-pale beneath the smudged dirt. Nott had her fingers interwoven with one of his limp hands, and she wasn’t looking up.

Beau must have let up her hold on Molly in that moment, because he struggled free, cursed viciously, propped himself up on his good arm and then halted again as he saw Caleb.

“Oh, _no_.” He scrambled up to his knees, swaying, one arm hanging loose with blood still running down the back of his hand. The shocked empty look hadn’t budged from his face. “Oh, no, no. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go at all.”

“You can say that again,” muttered Nott.

From the heavy masses of cloud above, very slowly, softly, as if in casual suggestion, the first flakes of snow began to fall.

*

There was the taste of failure in the darkness. He knew it well enough by that time.

 _Bren_ , someone was about to say, _Bren, that was quite disappointing_. It did not do to be disappointing. Next time he would be faster – next time he would not hesitate, just as Astrid and Eodwulf didn’t hesitate: no stumbling over _their_ words, no wasted motion in their hands.

What he had failed at this time, he couldn’t remember. The knowledge lurked like a shadow, always behind him as his mind spun. Perhaps someone would tell him what had preceded this, what he had bungled this time, what had come before that now made every breath burn and ache like a dagger-thrust through his chest. Perhaps. Or perhaps he would presently remember it himself, and then the weight of the guilt of it would catch up with him, and opening his eyes he would already be stringing words together to grovel in shame…

He had gotten very experienced by now at groveling in shame. Because of _course_ the teachers knew best, the others knew best; he was the country fellow, equally skilled at doing the wrong thing as he was at doing the right ones. Apologizing was a craft as intricate as spellcasting: watching for the memorized signs in faces that he was doing it right, the small motions and tones in voices that told him he was safe again.

Perhaps they would be less angry with him this time, expect less restitution, with how hurt he was. He didn’t know if he expected that, but he hoped for it. And how _had_ he managed to hurt himself so… why couldn’t he remember?

He tried to move his hand, and found that there was something pinning it, something more than a blanket.

Another hand lay over his, fingers entwined. Their grasp tightened on his as he moved, startling him. “He’s awake!” someone whispered.

Awake. Who was waiting for him to wake – how long had they been waiting –

“Master,” he said, though he didn’t recognize the voice. “I am sorry for my clumsiness.” But no, the voice had spoken common, not Zemnian. Better to repeat it in common and hope it was the right thing. “I’m sorry. I was clumsy. I was… wrong – “ He caught his breath against the pain that ebbed up at the effort of words.

“I don’t know about clumsy,” said another voice, above him, “and I’m not one to speak on that anyway, but I certainly wouldn’t say you were _wrong_.”

And _then_ he remembered, or started to remember: and as he opened his eyes he felt dimly that there was good waiting for him now, instead of fear and reproach.

Firelight, chilly wind on his skin, the motion of snowy tree branches above, white and black against a graying sky. Faces – a goblin wide-eyed at his side, hands tight on his, blinking away tears as she scowled horribly at him – a blood-spattered tiefling in a brilliant coat, smiling tired and happy – a stir of motion as a young woman sat up nearby and dashed her messy hair out of her eyes.

“Caleb!”

…Caleb. Yes. It was Caleb now. Not Bren, not student, not Scourger: Caleb Widogast, adventurer, wizard, one of the Mighty Nein. Caleb Widogast, _friend_ , somebody that people were crying over, somebody who –

“We lost, didn’t we?” he asked, breathlessly. “We couldn’t rescue them – the others.”

“We didn’t. We couldn’t.” Beau, her voice wobbling as if she were fighting back emotion too. “Not this time. But – we will, we will.”

“Optimist,” said someone else, just out of sight, the gravelly voice he remembered as their new dwarf comrade. But she said it without particular disdain.

“We… will.” Caleb blinked, staring up at the faces surrounding him; memories were trickling back now, memories of a battle and a glaive blade and someone standing alone before enemies and beneath a cloudy sky.“Beau. You’re safe. And Molly – you are – I am – I am glad. I was afraid that you – “

“We wouldn’t be safe if _you_ hadn’t been there,” said Beau. She elbowed Molly, surprisingly gently for her. “This moron thought he could take Lorenzo or something.”

“I can’t claim to have been thinking anything at all,” said Molly. “Let’s let my results speak for themselves.”

“I don’t know as you guys’ results speak so greatly for you yet,” Keg said from nearby. “Willing to wait and see, though.”

Nott still hadn’t let go of Caleb’s hands. “Don’t ever do that again.” She was still crying but didn’t seem to notice. “You, I mean. Everyone else can do whatever they like.”

Caleb wasn’t sure he was up to answering, but he gently returned the pressure of Nott’s hands with his own, not even caring how her long fingernails poked him. From the light in Nott’s eyes, it was enough.

“Of course we’re going after them.” Molly patted Caleb’s hair, rings cold on his fingers. “But you rest some more for now. You’ve had quite a morning.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Beau. “You nearly died on us too.”

“ _Nearly._ Nearly is the operative word here.”

…Perhaps this was failure – Caleb thought, as he let his heavy eyes close again – the empty spaces in their circle, the dimming sky above their snow-laden campsite. Perhaps it was. But even failure didn’t hurt so much now, somehow, and the pain in his chest as he breathed was only a small thing compared to the relief of knowing that he didn’t have to apologize this time, didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

He was Caleb Widogast, and today he didn’t have to stand alone either. 

**Author's Note:**

> an unrepentant 4k words of blood and emotions and fluff, for the days we just don't want sad endings


End file.
